Witness
by SassyJ
Summary: Movie-verse. Nika has survived alone for almost nine months, a contract unfulfilled brings 47 back into her life. Suddenly she's on the run again, all that stands between her and death, a wounded 47.
1. Chapter 1

It was unfortunate. Had he been slower, the bullet would have surely killed him. But 47 was the best, it was just a question of degrees really, and angles. In this case two seconds too quick and a bad angle, corrected instantly. The bullet missed his chest and punched into his left shoulder, a second sharp pain glancing along his left forearm and punching into his arm just above the elbow. A less focused man would have been thrown off by the projectile tearing viciously through skin and flesh and the accompanying pain which followed swiftly behind like a wolf on the scent of prey.

47's focus was never off. This was not a job, this one was personal. To guarantee success his focus was more complete than ever.

He fired. Twice.

The lucky adversary's luck ran out, and he folded up like a half-empty sack.

"I told you to leave her alone." 47 snarled quietly. Only someone thoroughly familiar with the assassin would have remarked upon the tiny hitch in his breathing. How the eyelids flickered twice as he knelt to remove the man's rifle and then straightened up.

He tidied the evidence away. Carefully. Conserving his energy. Injuries would slow him, but time was of the essence. Nika.

The woman whose life he had put before his own. He had saved her, and spared her life.

Leaving her on the train was hard. Every step that carried him away from her an unaccustomed pain in something he would have supposed he would call his soul. Had his soul not already been beaten out of him.

It had come back to him. Little by little, as he studied her from a distance.

He finished tidying, and left the area. He needed to move now, to get to Nika before another foolish attempt on her life. He needed to deal with his injuries and take stock of the situation.

His black overcoat and suit jacket were containing the bleeding, but he could sense the pain crowding in on the edge of his consciousness. He needed to fix the wounds sufficiently and stop the bleeding until he could move Nika. No time for more than a cursory patch up.

He achieved this in the relative privacy of the car. Two field dressings to the shoulder wound, through but no through the bullet was lodged. Nothing to be done now, he packed it as tightly as he could. Working one handed was awkward, but he reinforced his work with enough tape to hold until he could get treatment. The track along his forearm was nothing more than a shallow gash. He cleaned it easily, taped the edges together, put some dressings over it. Not a problem. The wound just above the elbow joint was sore, again through but no though. Shallow penetration, something was off.

He pulled his ruined jacket back on, easing it carefully over the heavily packed dressings on his shoulder. The jacket was beyond repair and stained with blood, but he needed the extra pressure to hold the dressings. It also concealed his shirt.

He drove, she was less than twenty minutes away, he tried not to think about how that made him feel. Feelings were not part of the game.

Yet he had spared her.

* * *

Nika Boronina poured herself a glass of wine, and walked out onto the patio. The sun had long since gone down, but the evenings were cool.

It was in moments like these that she liked to remember him best. Remember the promise that he made her. That he would find her.

That they would be together, she had written that part in her head. Taken it from the look in his clear dark brown eyes.

She had heard that he was dead. But Nika knew better. He would return. He would come for her as he had promised.

Five months later that promise would have seemed a little more hollow, only she wouldn't let herself believe it. Tonight would be the night, unwilling to accept how much she wanted it to be true. She sipped a little wine, savoring the flavor. He would call her name, and she would run to him.

"Nika." His voice, the soft caress that she preferred, like the warmth of his brown eyes when they looked upon her and lightened. Softened from the cold empty darkness of the stone-cold killer stripped back to pure instinct. Raw and cold and devoid of life.

"Nika." A little louder, and a lot closer, and she turned.

It really was him, and she ran to him then, until her body collided with his, her hands went to his shoulders, and his arms closed around her. Exactly as she had dreamed every day and night for so long. But something was off. The left shoulder beneath her hand seemed wrong somehow, something sticky beneath her hand. She lifted it to stare in disbelief at the blood smeared on her fingers.

"Your shoulder." Fear then, as she took in the movement of his left arm, and knew there was more. "You're wounded." Fear wound her voice uptight, held the lid on the explosion she was sure was building. He had left her for almost nine months.

Eight months, seventeen days, four hours and thirty-one minutes. Give or take. _But what were minutes between friends_, as she tried to guide him back into the house.

"No time." He shook his head, and taking her arm steered her towards the car. She went willingly. This was 47. His Audi. The open road. Beyond that a tiny dream of what might be. But only if she had the strength to get in the car.

They bypassed the trunk, which made her smile in spite of the knot of fear in her stomach. As she settled in to her seat she stole a sidelong glance at him. He was too pale.

This was 47. He was stronger, fitter, smarter and kinder than anyone that she had ever known.

The first few miles she tried to think of something to say. Remembering his rant on annoying, talkative little girls, and the amused look he'd shot her at her quick-witted response. Remembering those all too brief moments of tenderness on the train, when he had kissed the top of her head as she dozed against his shoulder.

"Talk to me." His voice was quiet again. Too quiet. There was an edge of something else in there.

"About what?"

"Anything." And she recognized that he needed the distraction, something to focus on besides the road ahead and the pain in his arm.

There was pain, she realized that. She had spent enough time with him to know him. Perhaps not in a biblical sense, but to know the vague and subtle signs that he gave out.

So she began to tell him of her vineyard, and the elderly couple who looked after her, and would care for her house while she was gone.

He drove, and she talked. Suddenly there was no fear, they were together.


	2. Chapter 2

The rain came down in earnest as they neared the Swiss border. Nika kept up her stream of chatter and banal questions. He responded in his usual flat tone, one that displayed indifference, but she knew better now.

The timing in his responses was ever so slightly off, casual glances in his direction told her much. From his gloved hands gripping the steering wheel just a little too hard, to his unhealthy pallor and the fleeting expressions of pain which crossed his face.

47 rarely displayed anything other than a neutral face to the world.

It was not a work of genius to understand that he was fading, and fast.

Nika pondered her options and spoke in an unconscious parody of the querulous child, demanding an answer. "Are we nearly there?"

"No." One word, such a wealth of information, a front tire clipped something in the road, the slightest of jolts, but there was a hitch in his breathing and a flash of real pain crossed his face. He was finding it harder to hold on and concentrate on the road.

Nika paused, almost holding her breath. If she fussed, he would ignore her. She had to present the option in an attractive light, as though he himself had thought of it. Neutral, that way there might be a chance he would go with the flow.

She gave it a few minutes. Long enough that he might believe she had only just thought of it, and it would salve his battered pride.

"I should drive." She said, hung the statement out there. Not a question, not begging, and not suggesting that he couldn't do it. Men and their egos. 47 was not so very different in that regard. His upbringing had crushed much of his humanity within him, but it didn't take that part away. He still had pride.

"Can you drive?" His usual flat tones were less flat, a little breathy, and she answered honestly.

"Yes, I can. I drove the tractor, and my father's truck, when I was little." And she had concealed that skill from Belicoff. Had she managed to escape it may have stood her in good stead. "You will have to teach me the fancy stuff, but I can drive a car."

She watched him turn it over in his mind, the way his eyes studied her for a moment, the mile or so of asphalt that passed beneath the tires before he moved in to the side of the road.

It was still raining, but he climbed out, faltered a little. Her heart turned over at that, and then she was scrambling into the driver's seat from the passenger side and he was sliding into the passenger seat. His movements were slower, less fluid and she knew the shoulder was nearly crippling him with the pain.

A lesser man would have given up at that point. 47's iron will and a lifetime of conditioning kept him going long past the point of no return. He was running on empty.

She settled the seat into a position that was comfortable. Only a minor adjustment, she was tall and had long legs. She adjusted the mirrors, pleased with herself that she had remembered that detail. Just a little skip of pride in her soul that he looked almost impressed. She pulled away smoothly, back onto the road, and chanced a very quick glance at his face. Definitely impressed.

But much more was revealed, and the pain in his eyes, the way his jaw clenched had her worried. She picked up the pace a little. Not as fast as him, but she hadn't driven in a long time and the Audi was more powerful than her father's old truck.

There was a long silence, and she began to fear that he had passed out. She didn't dare take her eyes from the road. "Is it much further?" She worked to keep her voice calm, conveying her anxiety would not be helpful. But just then a tire found another irregularity in the road, and he gasped.

She eased off the accelerator. "47?" Chanced a glance across. His eyes were screwed shut, agony written into his features.

"Oh my god… I'm sorry…" she was panicking. He put out his hand then, despite what the movement must have cost him.

"Drive." His voice was steady, an effort of will maybe, but it steadied her. He was counting on her, and after all that he had done, _was doing_ for her; she was not going to let him down.

She settled back, and he began to direct her. Not just in the route that they should take, but in handling the car, testing her reflexes. Suddenly they were having a real conversation, it may have been technical, but it was real. That counted for a lot. He could speak easily when it came to technicalities, and he could teach her a lot. Perhaps there was a lot she could teach him about being human.

Perhaps her small dream of togetherness was not impossible.

He was not just a stone-cold killer. He had risked his life, done what he did so well, not for a payday or for his personal safety or his ego, but for her. To keep her safe.

He had bought her a vineyard.

That was not the action of a killer with no heart or soul.

Under his guidance she was beginning to feel the car, feel it as an extension of her. They left the main road then, and started to climb, it was now the early hours of the morning, they passed through dark and quiet villages, occasionally he would tell her to take the right or the left, the pain was breaking through, she could hear it, but she made no comment, just questioned him, pushed him for responses. They were in this together.

The last village was a little larger than the ones that had gone before, he had her take a path through and then turn back on herself. Three times around and she was starting to see the twists and turns better. It would take a lot to learn the route absolutely, but she would have enough to get away safely, and he knew that.

The house was small, unremarkable, with a garage. He had her open the doors, and he drove in, the Audi swallowed up by the darkness. He removed a bag and a suitcase from the trunk, then had her cover the car with some dark material.

She took the bag and the suitcase before he could object, glanced pointedly at his shoulder, and without a word he led her to a door and stairs.

The room above was small, but well laid out, a mezzanine where she could see a bed, the main floor had a kitchen area, a living and eating area in front of her and a small doorway to her right which indicated some kind of washroom.

He headed for the stairs and Nika followed, the luggage wasn't heavy and it was well-balanced. Packed with thought and care. The way 47 did everything. He covered all the bases.

Or had until this thing between them brought something to life in his soul, and she discovered that even a stone-cold killer could be more honest, more gentle and more real than any man in her life had ever been or could possibly be.

She set the bags down in a convenient corner and turned. He was removing his suit jacket, with difficulty. She gasped in horror.

There was so much blood. His shirt was torn and bloody, now that there was a light she could see the stains even on his tie. Knowing that much of it was his blood she almost swayed, the room blurred out of focus for a second.

He sat on the bed. In anyone else it would have been a collapse. 47 sat calmly, unless you knew what to look for it might have been any normal day. But she knew what to look for, the way his eyes half-closed a beat too long, the slight hiss in his breathing, the way his top lip hitched and tightened.

He was staring at her. Nika refocused herself.

"I need you to remove the bullets." He said.


	3. Chapter 3

Nika swore under her breath, first in Russian and then slightly louder in English. 47 just stared at her calmly.

"You!" she spat. "How can you be so calm?"

"Nika." His voice was firm and insistent. "NIKA!" he cut across her ranting. "I cannot do this myself. I need you."

How he could sit there on the bed so calmly. Somewhere she found the courage to assemble the things he required, under his direction she cleaned and scrubbed her hands, helped him remove the heavily soiled dressings and his ruined shirt.

She put on the latex gloves and picked up the scalpel from the sterilized kit that he had put by. He injected himself with local anesthetic over the two wound sites. The pain would be reduced, but he would feel every move she made. She wanted to vomit, but 47 needed her. His need drove her on.

His calm instructions steadied her as she fished the tiny projectile out of his elbow. Shallow penetration. The easy one. It had done very little damage. She carefully cleaned, dressed and taped the small wound.

Which left the wound in his shoulder. Tentatively she peeled back the heavy temporary dressing. The wound was still bleeding a little, but she paused. Looked at him, could see the pain that was being held at bay, shook her head in mute distress.

"I need you Nika." His voice was quieter than usual, and she knew he was fading. "Please." He almost begged. She was not proof against that. She owed him everything. So she steeled herself and picked up the knife. Little cut to open up the wound site, tweezers to follow the path of the bullet, hearing him gasp slightly as her grip slipped from the bullet, once, twice, and then she felt something give. It was moving, she held her temptation to just pull back and rip the thing from his body, as his blood flowed over her fingers she willed her hands not to tremble.

Finally she managed to pull it out. Pressing a dressing hard over the hole in his shoulder. He was close to passing out, she could see that. She clamped her hand as hard as she could over the wound, praying that the bleeding would stop and that her untutored fumbling had not made things much worse.

She followed his directions, sealed the enlarged hole with steri-strips, he needed stitches, packed two dressings firmly over the wound, covering it, and wrapped everything in place with ace bandages. Using the clips to secure it. Helped him lie down, several pillows in place to support his injured arm.

By the time she had cleaned up the mess, carefully double-bagging all the waste and his shirt and tie, made them something simple to eat, he was nearly asleep. Though he ate what she brought him. She cleared away carefully and quietly climbed the stairs.

It was a double bed, it wasn't as though they had not shared a bed before, but she felt unaccountably shy.

Ridiculous. She took off her dress, folded it carefully, her underwear, and lifting the covers climbed in next to him. Turned out the little bedside lamp. His right hand found hers then, gently interlacing his fingers with hers. 47 had never done that before, and she caressed his wrist with her free hand. Softly, because she was frightened that he would pull away and put distance between them again.

Nika slept, worn out with the stresses and strains of the last six hours.

Sunlight filtering through the shutters woke her. Her first thought was for the man next to her. 47 was curled on his side, facing her, his skin hot to the touch, his pulse erratic.

For a full minute she tensed in pure panic. 47 had said that this might happen, but the reality was worse than she could imagine.

His fever was building, she had to reduce it, which meant pulling some of the blankets off him. Cold compresses. Bathing his body with cold cloths to bring his temperature down.

Hours passed and his condition only seemed to worsen.

* * *

Mike Whittier stood in front of the board and plotted the various points of the case he was now chasing. Six months after a dead body in his living room, and a strange, tense conversation with a man who he knew to be the most lethal killer in the world. A man who had spared his life twice. A man who….

The buzz of his cellphone on the desk surprised him. Startling him out of a dangerous trip down memory lane. He had done exactly what the assassin had asked. Even recognized a change in the man himself. Perhaps envied him the fresh start.

Although the start itself hadn't been all that fresh. There were still assassinations, but they didn't bother Mike unduly. Other assassins, the odd drug dealer or mobster, all people who would really not be missed. And since these 'incidents' were apparently quite unconnected with each other. Mike was more than happy for them to be treated as individual cases by other officers.

"Whittier."

The first thing that he registered was that she was Russian. The second thing was that this was his guy again, he knew it without her saying it. As he knew he was going to help. His guy, the case, he'd tracked it for three years. Even though it was over, it was never going to leave him and he knew it.

As he listened to what she had to say, he wondered in the back of his mind if his guy knew that Whittier and his right hand man, Jenks, had transferred to the Geneva office. That perhaps that was why the man had chosen a safe house less than an hour away.

* * *

Nika put the phone down, and checked on 47 again. He was weaker than ever, his temperature was back up again, mechanically she reached for the basin, fresh cold water, more towels, perhaps she could cover these feelings of betrayal with the simple act of tending to her wounded 47.

A number. A man who deserved far more than a number. Sure, he was a stone-cold killer, but he had loved her enough to buy her a vineyard. He had protected her. In nine months no one had bothered her, and she wasn't fool enough to believe it was because no one had tried. A far more likely explanation was that 47 had been protecting her from death all along.

Now she needed to protect him. If that meant putting him in the hands of Whittier and his subordinate, well she had to trust that her actions at the station gave Whittier just enough to want to help her. Help 47; because without that sort of help 47 was going to die. She had no illusions about that. The left shoulder was swollen, hot, and weeping something unpleasant. The infection obvious, and the smell foul.

* * *

Whittier drove, Jenkins sat next to him and mostly kept silent. Something which relieved Mike mightily. Explanations for this were going to be awkward enough as it was. Mike had chosen a non-descript car, and had varied his route and speed enough so that no one could follow.

Reaching the village was simple, it was almost dark when they got there, and Mike circled the block a few times. The fewer people who actually saw them enter, the better.

It felt strange, knocking at the door. But when she opened it, he felt back on familiar territory.

"Sir?" Jenkins hissed. "The girl…"

"From the railway station in St Pete." Whittier finished.

Nika motioned them to enter. "He's sick, he needs help." She said. "He spared you, I helped you. Please help me save him."

Whittier mounted the stairs to the mezzanine. Remembering the last time he had seen the assassin, and the assassin's warning.

The man was unconscious, his skin hot and dry to the touch. Whittier reached for his wrist to take a pulse, and then he was dialing for an ambulance.


	4. Chapter 4

Nika sat by 47's hospital bed and waited patiently for him to wake up. The doctors had assured her that he would be fine. 47 was a man at the peak of physical conditioning, now that the chips of bone from the shoulder wound were no longer poisoning his system he would recover quickly.

47 was always three or four steps ahead, his planning meticulous. So now it was up to her to think like him. Not the killing people part, she didn't think she would ever get used to that, but the cool, calm planning part. She could do that.

Once Whittier had come to her, Nika deliberately ordered her thinking. 47's suitcase, and the black bag that she had taken from the Audi were beside her. The doubled-up bin bag with the waste from her efforts to remove the bullets, and the bullets themselves she had disposed of in the waste bin of an open sanitary station as she passed on her way to see 47 after surgery.

Whittier had come through for them. She had sensed Jenkins' resistance to Whittier's help, but the man had said nothing. Nika refused to believe that Whittier did not understand, at least in part, about 47. So she made sure that the man knew. Even if it was only a very little, what 47 had told her about himself and his start in life.

This was war, information was her weapon, and she would not hesitate to use it. "What kind of place gives children numbers instead of names?" _Aim, fire, bulls'eye_. Whittier's eyes widened, and he looked confused. Then the enormity of what she was saying hit home.

She sat next to the bed and reached for 47's hand, gently stroking the inside of his wrist. "His name is 47."

She felt she was starting to think like her assassin. In the same way he had not hesitated to use the contents of a file with Agent Smith in the café and the agent's fear of being caught out, she was not hesitating to use Whittier's empathy to achieve her goal.

She could never be as calm as 47, but she could be more methodical and orderly for him. Perhaps if she was calmer and more ordered they could be together. 47 had shown her more kindness than anyone in her life before. He was her salvation, and she wanted to be his.

Even now she was uncertain of Whittier and Jenkins. She knew that Whittier would not betray them because he could be implicated, but something was not right.

47 would need his weapons. She made sure that they were alone, and settled down to open the case. She smiled as she ran her fingers over the ribbed surface, remembering the article about penguins, and a conversation about advertisements, and his response to her humor.

The interior contained a pair of large handguns and spare ammunition clips, and a rifle. She left the rifle. There was no way of hiding it.

She looked at the handguns, and the spare ammunition clips, two things that looked like pipes which she assumed went with the handguns in some way, looked down at her dress. Red silk, soft, flowing, not tight and clinging.

She swiftly hid the handguns, the pipes and clips under 47's pillows, dropped a gentle kiss on his forehead and went in search of tape and bandages.

Fifteen minutes and Nika had some sort of secure hiding place for the guns and the clips beneath her dress, it wasn't particularly comfortable, but they were well concealed. She had also found some needle and thread packs. The bag had a zip off pouch that could just about pass for a woman's handbag, so she zipped it off, slung the strap across her body and filled it with a few innocuous things such as the money she had found in 47's pants' pocket, an artfully concealed credit card in the name of Johnson and an American driver's license in the same name.

She had barely re-settled, checking on 47, when Whittier reappeared. He was with a small, puffed-up, weasely little man whose beady restless brown eyes swept over her figure in a way that Nika didn't like.

"Richard Johnson, you are under arrest…" The pompous little man announced in a smug tone of voice, and proceeded to list a series of crimes that Nika was certain that 47 had not and would not have committed. He then ordered Whittier to handcuff the suspect.

Mike stepped forward, fitted the cuffs around 47's wrists, and used a second pair to attach the unconscious man to the bed frame by his undamaged wrist. Only the misery in his eyes kept Nika from attacking him.

There were two goons with them who searched 47 even though it was perfectly plain he was unconscious. One took the bag and the suitcase while the other moved towards Nika.

Aware that if he was to touch her, he would find the guns, Nika backed away and slapped his hand hard when he reached for her.

"Niet." She snapped. The ferrety little man gave her the look that Nika had been recognizing since she was 14 years old. She pulled a face and gave him the finger.

"Get her out of here." He snapped.

"I'm staying." She gave him her sourest look. "If they take one step near me, I will scream loud enough to bring the entire staff running." She was on a roll now, "I scream rape… and who do you think the staff will believe. A woman caring for her sick boyfriend, or the inhumane monster who put handcuffs on an unconscious, injured man?"

He scowled darkly, no doubt about to have her dragged out in handcuffs too, but Whittier chose that moment to pull the man aside.

She didn't know what was said, she didn't care, but the pompous ass threw her a filthy look as Whittier ushered him out of the door. They were alone again, but for how long Nika had no idea.

She bent over 47, gently patted his cheek. "We have to get out of here." She kept patting his cheeks, rubbing his hand, eventually he opened his eyes.

47 was drowsy and sore, but he caught on almost at once. There were always plenty of objects with which to pick a lock in a hospital room. Nika watched him calmly pick the handcuffs with the iv needle he drew out of his arm.

The case and the bag were gone, but his dress pants were still in the locker, the scrub top he was wearing would almost pass for a tee shirt. She handed over his weapons. She could see the light of a new respect in his eyes, and that gave her a warm feeling.

He smiled. A rare warm thing, suddenly he seemed younger, more free and that heartened her. Perhaps this would work out alright.

"Now we leave." His voice quiet, flat tones, but there was a note of something else that Nika hadn't really heard before. The possessive tone in the word _we_.


End file.
